The Ghost Problem
by Lord Shifty
Summary: England could see the mystical, and America could not. Instead, what America could see, were ghosts. A series of drabbles in which the US of A lives his life while trying his hardest to not let anyone in on the secret. Not even the ghosts around him.
1. A Normal World Meeting

**Summary: England could see the mystical, and America could not. Instead, what America could see, were ghosts. A series of drabbles in which the US of A lives his life while trying his hardest to not let anyone in on the secret. Not even the ghosts around him.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing, only the plot.**

 **Drabble #1**

 **A Normal World Meeting**

America couldn't really _say_ he hated World Meetings. They could get really interesting, especially when being able to see and hear two different fronts—both the dead and the alive.

"You bloody _frog!_ " England screeched, attempting to punch the Frenchman in the face. Said Frenchman ducked, chuckling as he did so.

"Ohonhon~ Angleterre," France smiled, blue eyes holding a malicious glint. "Your days as an Empire are truly over~!"

England's face was an angry red. "I'LL SHOW YOU 'OVER,' YOU FRENCH WANKER!" Out of nowhere, he was suddenly holding a rapier. "C'MERE YE BLOODY CAN OF USELESS MONGRELING WORMS!'

France's face drained of color and bolted, the furious gentleman-gone-pirate hot on his tail.

Above the confusion, transparent men made of a silvery-white essence floated over their heads, all wearing clothes of times past.

"Haha! Go get that intrepid Gaulish fool, my Lord!" exclaimed a man in knight's armor, brandishing a sword caked in silver blood. He had several arrows protruding from the base of his neck, helmet not to be seen. America had no idea who that was, probably just some soldier who fought for his ex-mentor.

" _What are you_ doing _!?"_ shouted a man in French, eyes full of fury. He wore scaled armor and chainmail, a nasty wound to the side. _"DON'T RUN AWAY, NORMANDIE! TURN AROUND AND STICK A SWORD IN THAT TROPHY!"_ America strongly suspected the man of being William the Conqueror, but he wasn't all that sure. The American didn't like him. No, it wasn't because he called England a 'trophy,' among other nastier things. Nope. Nu-uh. England could stick it.

A red-headed lady in a 16th-centuryy noble dress looked at the now swearing England with a fondness that America had never seen someone else administer the island nation. She had an aura of strict authority, though she had mischievous eyes and a cunning streak that went hand-to-hand with her queenly, ladylike presence. Next to her, a 17th-century nobleman sulked. Every time this man attempted to open his mouth, eyes full of malice, the lady shut him up with one look. America noticed the other two squabbling ghosts giving her a wide berth.

 _Wow, would'ya look at that,_ thought America amusedly. _Shakespeare is in the room again._

And so he was, the silvery essence of William Shakespeare scribbling madly over a long roll of silvery parchment, looking on gleefully at the madness of the World Meeting and at the historical figures around him. Every so often, he would bow at the 16th century Queen of England, muttering something about "crafting a new play in thy honorable name, your highness." Victor Hugo hovered around the English playwright like a puppy, Miguel de Cervantes rolling his eyes in amusement at the younger's (in death terms) excitement. Those three were always stuck to the hip, America could swear on it.

America winced when the knight pounced on William the Conqueror and then was dog-piled under some random 14th, 15th, and 16th century dead French soldiers.

The World Meeting was being held in France, so it made sense that there was an over-abundance of French ghosts, the English ghosts not that far behind. Geez, talk about rivalry.

It was better than TV, that's for sure.

"VIve la FRAncE!"

 _Ohhhh that's so gotta hurt._ _Ouch._

"What does Amerika find so interesting in the ceiling, da?" America nearly experienced a heart attack, his hands twitching once from being startled. Still, he was America, so he was able to somewhat cover it up. He turned to the Russian, fake smile plastered on his face. Russia was also smiling at him like that, except his violet colored eyes held a hint of curiosity.

"HAHAHA!" he laughed obnoxiously, mentally slapping himself for letting his guard down. Stupid! "I was just thinking, of course!"

"Mother Russia didn't know that you had enough brains to think, da."

America's eyebrow twitched, smile not shaking. He was vaguely aware of some of the Nations eavesdropping on them, and even heard one of the ghosts from above snicker.

He could also see General Winter giving him the stink eye. The Nations around them shivered, the temperature in the room having fallen a few degrees—America saw Russia's smile become strained.

Still, America was unperturbed by the Personification of Winter. "Obviously, I have more than you, Communist Bastard."

"Kol kol kol kol—"

"BAHAHA!"

"Oh dear," said a familiar voice. From the corner of his eye, America spotted the ghost of Benjamin Franklin, whom he hadn't seen in a few decades. America bit his lip and pretended not to see him, one of his revered Founding Fathers.

"FROOOOOG!"

"OHONHON~!"

CRASH!

"Aiyaaa! I knew something would break!" exclaimed China.

"Big brother, there's no need to—"

BANG BANG BANG!

"VEEEEEE~!"

Benito Mussolini smirked at North Italy's distress. How mean.

"Marry me, big brother!"

"Tomato Bastard, get off me!"

"But Lovi~"

" _My country is an idiot,"_ sighed a Spanish ghost in 15th-century apparel, feathered hat covering most of his face. America recognized him as being who he dubbed as 'Spain's baddass ghost bodyguard.'

"You telling me!" groaned—wait, what was John Adams doing here!? And— _hey!_

"America you suck!" said a certain Cuban.

"EHHHHHH!?" Three guesses as to who that was. Protective annoyance stabbed through him. No one touched his twin. America was about to plow through the chaos just to cause an international incident when—

"EVERYONE SHUT UP!" Germany's voice pierced through the madness.

The Nations—even the ghosts—all fell silent, frozen in the middle of what they were doing. It looked quite comical, all of their faces blank and looking at the _very loud,_ very much fuming German.

Yep. America couldn't really say he hated World Meetings. They could get really interesting—if not a bit distracting, scary at times—especially with so many people in the room . . . even if to others it was emptier than what it actually was.


	2. The Prussia-Fritz Correlation

**Drabble #2**

 **The Prussia-Fritz Correlation**

Prussia had this nasty habit of crashing world meetings.

The ex-nation was never given the location of said meetings, nor the time. It was kept tightly under wraps, away from prying hands and ears. So really, how the albino always seemed to know the when and where was a complete mystery. America didn't know about the others, whether or not they ever wondered how the man did it—because really, that was some seriously awesome spy work. Perhaps they were too hung up over the obnoxious, narcissistic personality to even consider? Prussia was being severely underestimated all the time these days, much like how the others viewed the American . . .

But that was a thought to be pondered at a later date.

The thing is, Prussia had the tendency to crash world meetings every now and then, usually in a very volatile way. Sometimes he just quietly snuck in (for later to give everyone a heart attack), other times he simply barged in through the front door (oftentimes sending it flying off its hinges, complete with a smirk and extra loud laughing for extra dramatic effect), and then there were those _other_ times such as when the whole state of Pennsylvania suffered a power outage.

The menace that was Prussia was unpredictable—you never knew when or where he was going to strike, or if he even was planning to. America personally didn't care whether or not Prussia was present, as long as Pennsylvania and the rest of his land remained intact. Or, at least, without being harmed. Meaning: he didn't hold a grudge for the power outage fiasco. In fact, America found himself to be rather amused. Besides, Pennsylvania was used to weird shit anyways.

If the Prussian ever decided to ask America for the world meeting location, he would give it away as long as his name wasn't mentioned. But, alas, that had yet to happen. America was still waiting. Revenge could be such a beautiful thing . . .

"That albino idiot can't possibly find zhis place!" Austria sniffed proudly, a slight smirk on his posh face. "No one has said anything, correct?"

The nations shook their head in the negative.

"OK, zhen," said Germany, getting up. "I officially declare this meeting in session." He cleared his throat. "Afghanistan, you're up. Next three: Albania, Algeria, und Andorra, get ready."

The meeting, for once, was actually proceeding without its usual chaos. The room was also pretty devoid of ghosts, at most ten of them floating about. Except, well . . .

There was this one ghost in particular. A male ghost, kinda old and wrinkled, but not too much so. There was something about his face; it was triangular, wise, with a prominent nose and sharp cheeks, white hair done in a noble 18th-century style. Something about the man radiated power and authority, a tactical mind, and yet America could also sense the man's kindness. The man wore a white tunic and black pants, an iron cross necklace loosely hanging from around his neck. He simply sat there, in mid-air, one leg over the other, barefooted, calmly and quietly smiling to himself like an old grandfather. He appeared to be quite content, minding his own business. An old (mid-1700's, just about) military sword rested at his hip. The sheath was a dark silvery color with a tint of blue, meaning it probably _had_ been blue when its owner was alive.

America looked on with an amused face, head resting upon his knuckles, elbow on the table. This once-in-a-blue-moon peace would not last long, he knew.

The American saw Germany shiver, something that no one else noticed—unless you included Japan. The German looked around him, apprehension dawning on his face. Japan looked at him. Italy looked at Germany in light confusion, which again, no one noticed—America kept forgetting that Northern Italy was like America; severely underestimated. Hey, they should totally start a club~!

Germany muttered something under his breath. America read his lips like a pro:

"My Prussia senses are tingling . . ."

America nearly lost it, a guffaw escaping before clamping his mouth shut with his hand, face reddening with the effort needed to contain his laughter. His arm twitched, his body instinctively wanting to smack his hand against the surface of the table as he struggled to contain his laughter, but subconsciously stopped himself; he had trained himself not to, as he sometimes didn't know his own strength, especially when it was by instinct. His lungs started to _hurt_.

 _My Prussia senses are tingling! Oh_ man _. I can't. Pfffff._

America buried his head against the crooks of his elbows, hiding his face into the crossed arms now resting on the conference table. His figure trembled, muffled sounds slipping out.

"What the bloody hell are you laughing about, git?"

 _Noooooooooo don't make me talk!_

"What the—what's with the fat idiot?"

His body twitched. Oh, look, someone combined two of his most hated insults. Awesome.

"What an imbecile."

"Is he laughing at us?"

"God, why is he so immature? What a child."

"The fatass shouldn't even be here, he stinks up the place with his awful ideas and stupidity."

Aaaaaaand he has had enough. America looked at the other nations, innocent blue eyes curious and oblivious. "Did you guys say somethin'? I wasn't really listening." He grinned, perking up like a hyperactive puppy. "I was busy last night beating this new game that Japan gave me! Totally awesome, dudes!" He yawned long and wide, stretching out his arms. While doing so, he gave the ghost a quick peek—the spirit seemed to have perked up. It was time, then. Uh-oh. A transparent, weathered hand had been brought up to lightly touch slightly upturned lips, which practically oozed amusement. America braced himself.

 _Oh, God, thou that art in Heaven-_

"Git! You shouldn't be staying up all night playing some idiotic game!" England grouched, angrily putting down his cup of tea. "Have you even done all the paperwork your Boss gave you?"

"HAHAHA! You're so old, old man. Live a little, will ya? Not everyone goes to bed at five." The ghost had now turned to look at the door, as if it had heard its name being called. It gave a grandfatherly smile, back straightening. It chuckled, something it only did when . . . oh geez. At least they weren't in his country.

"Why you inconsiderate-!" Enlgand grabbed the American's shirt, bringing him down to his attacker's height. America took that as his que. Just as England was about to cheerfuly strangle his ex-colony to death, America deadpanned out a curt "I think I hear Gilbert."

England blinked. The whole room seemed to halt. Was that stomping they heard?

South Italy said what everyone else was thinking: "Oh shi—"

He never got to finish, though, as the doors were thrown open with a mighty BANG!

"KESESESE~!" the fierce-eyed albino shouted with laughter. "ZE AWESOME PRUSSIA HAS ARRIVED!" He dramatically pointed at the Nations. "TREMBLE IN FEAR AT THE MIGHT OF MEIN AWESOME ARMY!"

"Bruder, what ze hölle are you—"

But he, too, never got to finish, as the whole room was promptly flooded by a yellow wave of flying feathered fluffballs. The Nations, some of which were thousands of years old, screamed their heads off like prepubescent girls as the loudly chirping fluffy tsunami crashed into them.

America laughed so hard his sides hurt. He soon had to stop, though, as he found himself spluttering and choking on the soft feathers that invaded his mouth. He was probably the only one who found all of this hilarious, though, as he was the only one to have had a heads up. No, Prussia never told him. In fact, the albino never had to say a word; America knew just from spotting the ghost that always appeared whenever Gilbert Beilschmidt was up to something.

It was simple logic, really. Prussia was notorious for his unpredictability, and here America had the key to the modern day's equivalent of Enigma. Knowledge really was power . . . something that he knew very well.

 **A/N: Idk. Just thought that the idea of Alfred using Old Fritz's presence to predict Prussia's unpredictability was pretty neat. Oh, and Enigma was this WWII typewriter machine that Nazi Germany used to encrypt its messages. The computer had to basically be invented to crack it XD**


	3. A Few Reasons Why

**Drabble #3**

 **A Few Reasons Why**

America did not want the other Nations to know of his … gift? Curse? America did not know what to qualify this, so he'll just go with 'ability.' Honestly, sometimes it was entertaining and insightful, but more times than not it tended to cause him some form of stress or pain.

And it's not like he could outright _show_ it; America also did not want the ghosts to know of his ability to see them, meaning that he always had to juggle being mentally alert while physically appearing to be completely oblivious to his surroundings.

It was _exhausting_.

His ability to see ghosts had to be kept secret from the other Nations, for multiple reasons. First of all, he really didn't know how to prove it … maybe he could directly ask a ghost for something that only they knew of a Nation, but that could lead to Problem Number Two, which could potentially give _America_ (meddling superpower extraordinaire) direct access to very sensible information—be it on a personal level, or regarding their citizens and land (maybe even both). Or, for example, what if both parties used him as a medium to communicate? Yes, it _could_ be therapeutic for the Nations, in a way, and also for the ghosts, but America has also heard the ghosts complain! It could potentially hurt the other Nations! America knew, having found himself the prime topic of conversation amongst some of his past leaders. It stung. And not all ghosts were friendly and protective ...

This could end _so badly_ for everyone. Especially for America.

Also, he was 99% sure that he was the only one with this ability, so it's not like he could complain about the ups and downs of being able to see and converse with the dead with someone else. So why bother? In this aspect, America sort of envied England. At least he had Norway and Romania ...

This ability could also be used against him. The other Nations may not be able to see or hear these ghosts, but the ghosts could definitely see or hear _them_. America feared that if both parties knew of his predicament, they would do their best to make his life miserable, a living hell. Well, more than they already did. America has seen very freaky stuff in his life, and knew to what extent wrathful spirits could go. Which is why America really didn't want the ghosts to know that he knew that they were there. The last thing he wanted was for every spirit with a vendetta against him to show up at his doorstep with revenge in their minds.

It happened to him as a child—and it traumatized him.

 **A/N: Short, I know, but it needed to be explained that America does not want anyone to know of his ability—not even the ghosts! But worry not, more shenanigans will soon ensue! And who knows, maybe our favorite American will slip up someday …**

 **Feel free to make suggestions , cuz I'm making a list! Also, sorry for this drabble, I know it's kind of meh. Next one will be better!  
**


	4. Gale Schultz

**Drabble #4**

 **Gale Schultz**

America was, in a word, happy. It was a sunny day, the clouds overhead moving along lazily. It had just rained (poured, actually—came out of nowhere) so it wasn't as hot and humid as it had been since that morning, though still humid enough that his Star Wars t-shirt stuck to his body with sweat. Good thing he thought of bringing a bottle of water with him, which he had stored inside a satchel that hung from his shoulder.

He walked with a spring in his step, humming the Pokémon theme song as he made his way down a deserted street, a gazillion watt smile out for all to see. The pavement had been darkened by water and the grass shone in the sun, the occasional puddle marking a pothole here and there. Two-story townhouses with yards surrounded him, the sidewalk he stepped on paving the way through a mound of grass, of which some of it poked through cracks that pushed the tiles to become uneven. Someone not used to the abruptly dipping or rising ground may accidentally trip or something.

His phone vibrated; the United States of America _giggled_.

He took it out of his back pocket and opened the app. A Rattata. He looked around … there! He crossed the street, not really minding himself, as he heard no cars coming and it really was a quiet place anyway, with barely any to no vehicles or even people outside—though he _did_ encounter a few gaggles of young people also out and about, gazes fixated on their phones while shouting about a Doduo (which ran away when America had tried to capture it _damn it to hell and back_ ). He tapped the small avatar in the GPS-orientated game. America switched on the camera and there it was, the purple rat-like Pokémon, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, as though in real life. Augmented reality was what they were calling it.

America was practically vibrating as he swiped the pokéball on screen, causing it to be launched at the low-level CP20 Rattata. The rat Pokémon got hit and was vacuumed in. The American nation waited in anticipation as the ball wobbled once, twice, and a third time, while its center button glowed red …

"YES!" America shouted in victory, giving a small jump with a fist pump. The Rattata was added to his growing collection of Rattatas. He nicknamed it Ratatouille. Just because he could.

There was Pettigrew, Frittata, Ratpot, and now Ratatouille. He also had a Raticate named Rat Potato.

He nicknamed all his babies.

He looked at his phone, at the map of the small central Pennsylvanian town. He had wandered a bit far away from his car, but didn't particularly care. He was having the time of his life—it's been a while since he had last gone out to visit his more rural areas. Actually, it had been a while since he last was allowed to go out and relax in general. Well, he couldn't exactly say the word 'allowed,' per say. America had snuck out of a meeting in Harrisburg with some politician or whatever; simply put, _allowed_ wasn't the word at all. _Ohhh look, a leaf-rustle … wonder what Pokémon it is? I want an Eevee!_

He _really_ wanted an Eevee named Churro.

Whatever Pokémon it was, it was a few blocks away, heading more into the main street. With a grin and a hop to his step, America went in that general direction, looking at his person avatar on-screen to make sure he was going in the right direction. This was so exciting!

As he was skipping (ahem, _walking_ ) and enjoying his quiet walk, he heard a sniffle. America frowned, coming to a complete stop. It came from just around the corner. Feeling his Hero Radar blaring, he quickly rounded the corner and came upon a sight that drained the color out of his skin.

It was a small figure, face hidden between its arms, knees drawn close to its chest. But it was also silvery and transparent.

He quickly averted his gaze and relaxed his body so that it wasn't so stiff. Praying that it didn't notice his presence, he attempted to walk by without it noticing him.

Keyword here being 'attempted.'

America had successfully passed by without a problem, except there was one big giant flaw with his plan: he really couldn't stand seeing his citizens sad, least of all a child.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. America hoped it wasn't one of those creepy ghost children that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Yikes. He surely hoped not—his last encounter had ended with him not leaving his house for a whole week. He turned on his heel, and walked so that he was in front of the spirit, though still far enough that if it jumped at him, he would have time to duck and run away screaming.

He reeeaaally didn't have good memories involving creepy ghost children. Nope. Not at all. Give him a quarreling ghost congress any time, thanks. They may not be scary, but man, they gave him one hell of a headache. And caused him as much distress.

 _Okay, America,_ he mentally coaxed himself, feeling his heartbeat quicken. _You can do this. Just ask what's wrong._

"H-hey kid, what's w-wrong?" America inwardly cursed at the tremble in his voice. "W-why are you crying?"

The child ghost did not budge, tiny sniffles still emanating from the small body. It wore a plain t-shirt and shorts, hair cropped in short tufts. Gulping back his _more than rational_ fear, the bespectacled young (in appearance) man approached the spirit and crouched down to its level.

"Kid?" He shifted his weight and fumbled with his satchel's strap, which had an American flag pin. "A-are you okay?"

The ghost froze. America braced himself. Slowly, the ghost child raised its head, revealing a pair of tearful sad eyes and dimpled cheeks. There was a thick gash running across its forehead, silvery blood covering half its face.

America gave a small, nervous smile. Voice soft, he repeated; "Are you okay, kid?"

They stared at each other for a while. Finally, the ghost spoke:

"Y-you can see me?" it whispered, eyes widening.

"Yep!" America said in fake cheer. "Now, what can the Hero do to help you?"

The ghost child blinked. It sniffled once more and rubbed its cheeks to clear them of tears. America always wondered about that—how could ghosts produce liquid when they were, well, dead? It made no sense, but then again, many things in life, as in death, made no sense anyway.

"I-I'm scared. I want my mom."

America was suddenly filled with a sense of purpose, making him momentarily forget that he was supposed to be scared.

"Don't worry! I'll help you find your mom!" He gave the ghost child a sunny smile, this time genuine.

The spirit did not return it. Instead, it—he—looked sullenly at the ground.

"You can't do that."

America frowned. "Why not?"

The little boy—who couldn't be any older than nine or ten—pointed right behind the nation. America looked—and was instantly filled with sadness.

A memorial sat in front of a telephone pole, full flowers and a stuffed animal. There was also a picture of the ghost child, smiling shyly at the camera. Brown locks, brown eyes, dimpled cheeks … last month's date had been scribbled on the lower right-hand corner with a black marker, along with _Never Forget_.

 _16 June 2016 - 10:45 AM_

 _Last evening, on 15 June 2016, ten-year-old Gale Schultz was killed in a hit-and-run. The accident happened right in front of his residence, on the second day after the family had moved from the state of Maryland._

 _Gale Schultz, then_ , America thought sadly, blinking away the local news article. His heart went out to the kid and the family—his poor, poor citizens. It always broke his heart when tragedies like these happened.

"Oh. I'm sorry …" America gave the boy a sympathetic look. The spirit gave a sullen nod.

"Mom, Dad, and my little brother Kev moved back to Maryland not even a week after." The spirit frowned. "Even after I re-arranged the letter magnets telling them to stay and not go back _there_. We moved for a reason …" The ghost child sighed, furrowed brow gaining an annoyed edge. "And it took me a while to figure out how to slide the stupid magnets around the fridge … moving objects is a lot harder than it looks in this form, you know."

America gave Gale the ghost child a raised eyebrow, though internally he was having a mini panic attack: spirits that could move stuff were usually bad news. Said ghost child gave a one-armed shrug, a look that could only be interpreted as a stupendous combination of 'I have no idea why that didn't work' and 'I think they are a bunch of idiots' present on his face.

America felt his phone continuously vibrate. He slid it out of his back pocket and glanced at the caller ID: ' _Iggybrows._ ' He groaned, and rejected it.

"Who was it?" the child asked with a curious glint in his eyes.

America rolled his eyes. "Someone who will lecture me for three days and nights straight if ever given the chance."

"Oh." The ghost paused. "Did you do something that you weren't supposed to?" he said in that innocent, curious, child-like tone that children were prone to adopt.

America shrugged. "I guess. Does exiting a governmental building via window and tree in order to skip a dull political meeting count?"

The ghost blinked owlishly. He stared at the elder with a dubious look.

"You don't look like a politician," he pointed out, motioning at America's Star Wars t-shirt. "Or at least, you don't look like you were supposed to be meeting one. My dad's a lawyer—so I know that you're supposed to dress neat when meeting important people." The child's frown deepened. "You also aren't old or bald or have wrinkles. Or wear a toupee."

America cracked a smile. "So I'm not a politician because I'm not bald or have wrinkles or," here he sniggered, "wear a toupee?"

The child nodded furiously, frown still prevalent.

America chuckled good-naturedly, smiling as he remembered just how he snuck out. And as for the t-shirt, he always had a change of clothes or two sitting in the car just for these types of situations; America was always prepared. And paranoid. "Well, I guess I'm not a politician then," he stated with amusement tinting his tone. "Not by your standards, anyway."

The ghost child was still frowning at him, still sitting on the ground with his back against the fence with peeling and chipped paint.

And then America felt his phone continuously vibrate once again. With a resounding sigh, he checked the caller ID, hoping that it wasn't England again. Or Canada.

 _'The Prez of the US'_

America stared at the screen of his phone with a deadpan look on his face.

After a moment of slight hesitation, he hit 'reject' and hid the phone away.

"… Same person?"

"Hm? Oh, no. No." _Just President Obama, probably gaining a few more grey hairs as we speak._

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in silence.

"Um, you should probably leave," the ghost child suddenly said. America was about to ask why, but was interrupted by a voice.

"Um, sir? Do you need assistance?"

America whirled around (he actually fell on part of his bum as he did so) and came face to face with a mailman, who if truth be told looked rather lost. America gave the man his best all-is-fine-with-the-world smile.

"Nope! Just, uh, talking to … the fence? Yeah! Talking to the fence!" America adopted a serious tone of voice. "Did you know that according to studies conducted at Harvard, talking to fences increase their likeliness by 17.7% to remain strong and sturdy in the face of strong weather and break-ins?"

"Um … uh …" The mailman looked rather uncomfortable, giving America a baffled look that bordered on ... something. Probably fear for the other's sanity.

"Anyways! Have a good day!" America stood up, flicked imaginary dirt off his clothes, and power-walked away. _I'll go around the block and then go back to talking to the kid … yeah, I'll do just that—_

"Wouldn't it have been better if—"

"AAAAAAAHHHH!" America stumbled to the side, heart feeling as if it had hurled itself out of his mouth. "Holy SHIiiiitake mushrooms!" America turned wide-eyed at the ghost child by his side, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. The nation pressed a hand to his chest, right over his heart. "Jesus, kid!"

"Um, er—sorry?"

America gave a shuddering breath. "Scared the crap outta me," he muttered.

"Mister—"

"Alfred. Call me Alfred—mister is too stuffy. Like Iggy. Or Ludwig." America pouted. "Bunch of oldies, the lot of them. Well, not Ludwig, he's actually _younger_ than me but—"

"Alfred, we should go now." The ghost touched the nation's arm—and America's body jumped, feeling as if a block of ice had suddenly been pressed against his skin. That gained his attention. "Look!" the boy insisted, pointing behind them at … the mailman … who had his phone out and was talking in a hushed tone, all the while staring at America.

"Uh, I didn't sound too crazy back there, did I?"

The ghost child gave the nation a _seriously?_ look. Then, "There's a mental institution just across the river," the young boy added.

America groaned. "Great. Just great."

"Hey, young man!" the mailman called. "Stay right there, okay?"

 _Yeah … not happening._

America bolted.

* * *

"My mom always said to obey and listen to the police," the ghost child stated matter-of-factly.

America peered over the bushes where he was hiding in. "Yeah, well, your mom never had the misfortune of being able to see stuff that no one else could."

"I guess." The ghost child, who was hovering over said bushes, gave America a long look. "How long have you been able to see … ghosts?"

America shrugged, making the leaves rustle. Boy, was he in trouble …

"Ever since I could remember," the nation answered curtly. America remembered playing with some animal spirits back before England took him in.

The boy was still staring at him. America gave the boy a raised eyebrow.

"You're different," the ghost claimed. "You don't feel like the rest."

Silence.

"That's because I'm not like the rest."

The ghost cocked his head. "There's this girl who lives next door that feels different. You're not like her." Again, the ghost frowned. "Different," he insisted.

America smiled, but did not offer an answer: he knew from experience that ghosts could sense a Nation's aura. Ghosts could also sense clairvoyance … but since Nation Auras were much more imposing and, well, omnipotent, everything else was swamped by it.

"Yes, different … just do me a favor and don't tell any other ghosts that I can see them. Makes life easier, ya know?"

The ghost fumbled with his shirt, which was soaked with dark silvery blood.

"Only if you visit—it gets lonely around here. No people to people watch."

It was America's turn to frown.

"Aren't there any other ghosts around?"

The child ghost shrugged.

"I'm not a people person … and mom told me never to go out by myself." The ghost—Gale—looked upset. "She promised to go out exploring with me …"

America's gaze softened. "I'll go out exploring with you, Gale."

 _Did Gale tell me his name yet? Ah, oops. Please don't notice._

"Really?" Hope-filled eyes were trained on the Land of the Free. _Thank you!_

"Sure! Not now, though. Maybe after the police forget about me … think the mailman got a good look at my face?"

For the first time that day, America heard the boy ghost laugh.

"Maybe … but you promise to come back?"

America smiled. "I promise."

And as America waited for the police car to stop patrolling the area for him, the nation showed his new friend all of the Pokémon he caught. He showed him the Fearow he nicknamed Fat Turkey, Pepsi the Beedrill, Kakunamatata the Kakuna, and all of his Rattatas. Gale laughed at his six Spearows, all of which were named Jack Spearow, as well as the Magikarp named Floppyjoe. They doted on his Bulbasaur, which he fondly named Liberty.

And, while waiting in the bushes, he finally got that Eevee. He let Gale name it. So now he had an Eevee called Alfie, which is what Gale had taken to call him after three hours of conversation and major arse cramping.

America promised Gale that they would play Pokémon GO together next time. In the three-four centuries that he had been alive, ghosts like Gale had been few and far between. The United States of America was mighty glad that he skipped that meeting. Even if it will earn him an earful when he finally decided to show himself. Not that such a thing ever stopped him—oh no. Never.

 **A/N: Not liking this one as much … but fear not! I have ideas! You have ideas! STUFF!  
**


	5. The Virginian Wendigo

**(Fake?) Drabble #5**

 **Because this was written a long time ago and my real Drabble #5 is taking longer than initially expected.**

 _ **WARNING: Rated T because blood.**_

 **The Virginian Wendigo**

 _June 29_ _th_ _, 1984_

Perfect.

That's the word that America used to describe the object he was seeing.

No . . . perfect did not do it any justice. It was otherworldly. Yes. A better word. Perfect, ethereal, otherworldly, _beautiful._ Oh yes. Definitely beautiful. Beautiful and otherworldly. It looked so out of this world, and ironically, it actually _was._ Its appearance was so . . . so . . . well, it looked fake. Not real.

Otherworldly.

A cloth paper lantern, a candle lit in the centre and whose light illuminated its interior in layers of color, slightly darker shades with swirls of brown richness and lighter tones of soft smooth plaster. It looked as if one had gotten a can of thick yellow-beige paint and added a paintbrush-full of dripping brown to its content, semi-mixed but the colors still separate. The spherical object was painted in horizontal strokes, full of the aforementioned shades swirling around the near-perfect round object—near-perfect, as in not perfectly round, for part of the lining on one side was shaded away, darkness leaving a perfect blur on that one specific location.

But what truly made this otherworldly object so beautiful and unique were the rings. It looked like one big thick solid disc of swirling lines divided into two by a black band and then some, but America knew that to not be true. Appearances weren't all what they seemed, as he very well knew. The rings were actually composed of many, many, many, _many_ rings! There were layers upon layers of rings, not five or so different levels as it appeared to be! And the disc wasn't solid at all, no sir! The rings were made of smaller materials, some as big as a house and some as minuscule as a dust particle! The rings were composed of rocks and dust and debris and they were all orbiting the sphere . . .

America adjusted the telescope, re-focused the eye piece. He looked up, then squinted back through the lens. A grin made its way upon his lips, pure raw joy and excitement gripping his very being as he gazed at the otherworldly object that was otherwise known as Saturn.

He was definitely writing a thank you letter to his Boss and NASA. This was epic! He tampered with a few bifocals and typed a few things on the machine that was connected to the as-large-if-not-a-bit-larger-than-a-horse telescope. He changed altitude, latitude, and direction. With an ease that could only belong to a professional, America found his next target. He re-adjusted the position so that the fifth planet of the Solar System was centered, and took a peek through the lens. Hmm. He turned the knob slightly and . . . there! Perfect.

Jupiter was also beautiful . . . ohhh look at the moons! America could make out three—no four of them! He could also see Jupiter's rampaging great red storm, as well as the bands of thick clouds being propelled at great speeds due to the rapid rotation of the planet. America always thought that Jupiter resembled polished wood, that it looked like the inside of a trunk of a great tree. Pity he couldn't make out Jupiter's very thin ring system . . . he squinted really hard.

America was in the process of losing even more eye-sight via hard and prolonged squinting through a tiny opening when his cell phone startled him with a loud ring. His concentration was broken and he yelped at the sudden noise—jumping about a foot in the air. America was isolated from the rumble of civilization, surrounded only by the music of summer. He was all set up on a rolling grassy plain somewhere in Virginia, surrounded by thick forest and far away from any disturbing lights or human activity. It was only him, the telescope, and the brimming wildlife around him. The log cabin he built a century ago was situated about sixteen minutes away, ready for him to return after doing his thing.

So, needless to say, America's heart was currently going a million an hour. The phone kept ringing. America's heart settled down somewhat.

" _Jesus_ ," muttered America under his breath. "Wonder who that is . . ."

He took out the device, which was the newest model up to date. It was hella cool. It looked as if a radio and a calculator had a one-night stand. He pressed a button and answered.

"Hello~?"

" _America."_

America's eyebrows slid up. He would recognize that distinct English accent anywhere. And the tone of voice. _Especially_ the tone of voice. That crisp, posh tone that always held a hint of bitter irritation on most days.

"Iggy! Wazzup old man?"

On the other end of the line, England spluttered indignantly. America grinned. Ah, it was always so much fun getting underneath his skin!

" _W—why you! How—no—I'm not—America! How dare you defile the Queen's language! And I'm NOT old you daft—"_

America rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, old man," he interrupted casually if not a bit rudely. "So Iggs—" more indignant spluttering "—what can I do for you on this fine . . . " he glanced at the digital clock embedded into the telescope. It read 2:38 AM. "dandy good Monday morning?"

It was approximately 8:38-ish AM in London. Oh, how very mature England.

" _Oh, did I wake you?"_ America always wondered how England managed to sound apologetic but at the same time let others know that he _wasn't. "If I did then my apologies. That was not my intention."_

 _Liar, liar, pants on fire~!_

England needed to stop being so passive-aggressive, gosh. But, then again, it wouldn't be England if he wasn't. Still, Nations liked to take advantage of America's Reading the Mood handicap all too often . . . which was amusing as hell. America actually wasn't as oblivious as others liked to think . . . though England should know better. The man raised him, for God's sake!

Oh well. England's bitterness tended to reach an all-time high whenever summer rolled around.

America made himself more comfortable, leaning back against his foldable chair. "Oh no worries Iggy!" he said cheerfully. "I was already awake when you called!"

England grumbled and mumbled over the phone, obviously not pleased about something. Aha! So he really _was_ trying to wake him up! A childish tactic, he must say. But then again, America was actually the one who started it, so he wasn't allowed to complain. He's called other countries at ungodly hours in the morning and pretended not to understand the concept of time zones before. Many-a-time. He especially enjoyed having business talks with the USSR over the phone~

At least England did it out of a childish sort of revenge. America did it out of tactical advantage. Ah, the things that can slip out when irritated and tired~! America, though, will have to admit that he also did it out of fun. Annoying fellow Nations was a hobby of his~

" _What the bloody hell are you still doing up at this hour?"_

America shrugged noncommittally. He then remembered that he was indeed talking over the phone so England actually couldn't see him.

"Oh, you know," he said casually, swatting a stink bug away from his precious telescope. "I got a new console from Japan to try out. You should come over sometime! It's freaking awesome, dude."

" _Don't 'dude' me!"_

"Whatever . . . dude."

" _Alfred F. Jones!"_ the elder Nation screeched admonishingly.

"So, why did you call again?" he butted in bluntly. America was anxious to change the topic. He felt uncomfortable when England got all . . . motherly. It just wasn't right.

England composed himself over the line.

" _Ah, yes, about that."_

"Is it about the new transatlantic trading draft?"

" _Er—no, actually,"_

"Ohhh lemme guess. The oil agreement needs an once-over."

" _America—"_

"I guess it's time to review a few of the trading clauses, don't-cha think? It's a fast changing world out there!"

" _I—"_

"Is it a UN thing or a NATO thing? West Germany already contacted me about the UN thing so I'm okay on that front. The NATO thing, on the other hand, needs to—"

" _America."_

"Of course, if you need economic bailing then I think the EU will—wait, Ivan hasn't been threatening you has he?" America's voice turned cold and protective, anger seeping through at the mere thought of—

On the other end of the world, the ex-Empire felt a shiver run down his back. _"No!"_ the Brit said a bit too quickly. _"And if he has then I can take care of myself perfectly fine, thank-you-very-much!"_ The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland wasn't one to be trifled with, after all.

"Oh. OK!" America's voice was back to normal, cheery and obnoxious. Well, it wasn't as if the USSR could even _afford_ it at the moment, or so his spies informed him. "So, what brings your gentlemanly self to call me at this fine good hour of three in the morning?" America asked happily.

" _Oh—I—yes,"_ England was a _bit_ flustered, _"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about a preposterous newspaper article that made its way into my lands' mainstream media. I cannot stand idle while—"_

America restrained himself from sighing out loud.

 _It always has to be business, doesn't it?_

Oh well. America decided to hear him out . . . ish. He shouldn't be held accountable for if he either zoned out or fell asleep. It _was_ nearly three in the morning, so he had a perfectly good excuse—wait.

America heard a noise. He froze, breath caught in his throat.

" _America? Are you even bloody list—"_

America hushed him. England fell silent.

There it was again, except that it came from the opposite side . . . a pack?

The crack of a branch. The noise of a body hitting swatting leaves. And if he concentrated—the light patter of _something._

Whatever it was, it was now hiding in the bushes right in front of him, one hundred feet away. America narrowed his eyes. This thing was fast, as in, _very fast._

Well, that ruled out bears. Definitely not a pack of wolves, what with it only being one of them. Still, too fast for even a lone wolf. Also, whatever it was, it definitely was hunting him. So, not a herbivore. Not that he knew any that were that fast. Deer weren't that fast. It was _too_ fast.

It was eerily silent. He had a feeling that he was being watched.

America could feel its eyes on him. Oh, he was _definitely_ being hunted. He stared unblinkingly into the border between grassy plains and thick woods. How . . . how interesting. Hmmmm. Were those glowing red eyes?

. . .

Ah. Nope. Gone.

" _America?"_ America chose not to hear the concern in his former fath-broth- _mentor's_ voice. " _What's wro—"_

Ah. There it was again. Except this time the sound came from the side and—"Yikes!" America ducked, a blur of movement swiping at the space where his head used to be. Using his momentum, America planted a hand on the ground and used his weight to pivot and turn on the spot, all the while sticking his leg out and giving one strong and well-aimed kick in the general direction of the thing. He felt his booted foot connect with soft flesh and heard a rib or two snap before sending it flying a few feet away, heavy body dragging across the ground a few more.

The creature swooned a bit but regained its bearings soon enough. It stood up, straight, like a human, and _growled._

America cocked his head to the side.

". . . Now what are _you_ doing all the way down here?"

It roared, slobber spraying the ground, and revealing quite the long tongue, which was a disgusting dark blue. Even though it was a week away from the new moon, he could see the creature very well in the dim moonlight.

It was over fifteen feet tall and lanky, with tight strong arm muscles with large hands that had long and terrible claws attached to them. It was extremely thin with long limbs. Its agile build was semi covered in matted hair; it covered part of its thickly veined neck and went along its spinal cord, branching out by covering most of its lower back. The rest of its body was covered in pale, shallow skin that under further inspection had a yellowish quality to it. It was bald and had pointed ears, long and very sharp yellowish fangs protruding at its lipless maw, flecked with blood, bared in an eternal snarl. An old Native American loin-cloth hung at its hips.

It snarled and got ready to attack. He hoped that they were far enough as to not damage his new telescope. The Nation narrowed his eyes at the creature.

Well. America had no flare guns on hand and he really didn't have time to draw a protective circle of Anasazi while also fighting it off. His handgun was too far away and held no silver bullets anyways.

 _Fists it is then._

America cracked his neck and got into a boxing position.

"Dude. This is Virginia. A bit far from the Great Lakes, aren't ya?" He cocked his head. "Or maybe you're Canada's . . . ? No, that pattern is definitely from one of my land's Natives." From an extinct tribe, actually. America felt guilt bubble up in his chest, but pushed it down—now was not the time.

It lunged, claws outstretched and body moving as fast as a bullet. America ducked and punched it in the jaw—it recoiled, and America took that opportunity to slide behind it. America kicked it—but the creature rolled and swiped at his chest—America brought his arms up and felt as his skin was ripped and his flesh was carved in one deadly move—he fell to the ground and kicked the creature's knee in, completely shattering it. It howled and America barreled into it using his shoulder—they both went down, but with America on top and therefore with the advantage—he somehow got it into a headlock. It squirmed and tried to get free, but America wasn't a superpower with super strength for nothing; he squeezed, applying pressure on its neck. He forced the head into the ground, and from his combat boots he slid out a dagger. He stabbed it deep in the neck, right between the bones. He added pressure, the beast roared, and the dagger went in so deep that it came out the other side—Alfred twisted its neck and pushed the head with all his might against the ground—it embedded itself deep in the ground, pinning it down momentarily, allowing him to fist both of his hands and hold them high in the air—he brought them down like a hammer, slamming the head deep into the Earth, ground cracking underneath, sending rocks and bits of sediment flying. A wayward chunk cut his cheek, and America felt warm liquid slide down.

The Earth wasn't the only thing that cracked. The creature's head was bashed in, neck broken and body limp but embedded into the grassy floor. He could make out part of the dark spirit's exposed brain.

It wasn't dead. He knew better than that. It was only a matter of time until the nervous system re-connected, allowing it to move once again—injury be damned. The beast was insanity and evil personified. There was only one way to completely kill this creature.

America got up with a grunt. He dusted his clothes off and winced at the sharp pain that he felt tearing at his arms. One good look at the injury made him grimace . . . not pretty. Still, he's seen worse. And he was a Nation. Nations healed fast . . . it would take longer than usual in this case, but still faster than a normal human. Blood dripped down like rivers, staining his skin and clothes.

 _Oh great. Now I have to wash these. What a draaaaaaag._

He approached his star-gazing site and when he saw the completely ruined cell phone he sighed. He pocketed the sad remains and pouted. Not fair. He just got that.

America set on building a fire pyre in record time, dumped the creature's body in it, sacrificed his whiskey (he was very sad to see it go), and watched its lifeless body instantaneously catch fire and burn to the bone. He made extra sure that the stone cold icy heart melted and burned to nothing more than ashes. He gave an old Native prayer, disposed of the evidence, double-checked that the fire was completely out and had no hope of re-igniting (it was forest fire season), packed up his equipment, and left. He retired to his log cabin to treat his wound and the many scrapes he obtained from rolling around on the ground, as well as for rest and nourishment. He also took the time to draw a protective Anasazi circle around said log cabin, among other things. You really could never be too careful. These things were highly intelligent—they could effortlessly open doors and sneak about in complete silence.

Yes. America needed to rest up. He needed to place a few calls early in the morning . . . he had a few questions that needed answers. Like, what the hell was a freaking _Wendigo_ doing all the way down in the _southern_ part of the _east_ _coast_. Canada should be notified of this, as they both shared the 'Wendigo Hot-spot.' Mattie was an expert when it came to wendigoes, as his whole land was practically Wendigo Central, but the creatures were highly concentrated around the forests of the Great Lakes—Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, as well as the Dakotas. Then there were the tree-climber ones from Colorado . . . but he'd rather not think of those. Yeesh, what a nasty camping trip that was.

They used to be a bit more wide-spread, Utah and Colorado coming to mind, but ever since the late 1800's they've been more contained up north. Their fluidity was completely cut when industrialization reared its head, though one or two cases liked to surface once in a blue moon. There was also the slight possibility of new wendigoes being born, but America wasn't concerned about that. The modern-day world made it that such a thing had little to no possibility at all of happening, riding on the negative scale (although it _could_ and _did_ happen. He still remembered that particular case).

And to add more weight to things, this wendigo wasn't the only creature that was found uncharacteristically out of place lately . . . it was fishy. And subtle. Odd things were happening all throughout his lands. Well, odder things than usual. And more frequently. Which was already saying something, as he was pretty darn sure that supernatural activity on this side of the world was not only much more aggressive, but more plentiful, too. Something was not adding up. Ugh, he could practically _feel_ the amount of paperwork that this was going to cause.

Something was definitely up. America could feel it, stirring somewhere deep within him. It was one of _those_ feeling, the ones Nation Personifications like him got whenever something big was happening, if not about to happen. The change was subtle, but with grander implications. He had a _bad_ feeling about this. Or maybe it was the Cold War heevy jeebies talking. It could _also_ be the Nevada nuclear testing, which hurt _a lot more_ than he was willing to admit.

Ugh. Either way, he needed to get some shut-eye. Sleep now, think tomorrow.

Three hours after falling asleep, the door to his log cabin was rudely kicked down by a horde of frantic FBI and NSA agents, as well as a few of the President's personal body guards, all heavily armed and extremely paranoid.

No one was amused in this situation.

 **A/N: So this was originally the start of a** **Hetalia x Supernatural crossover** **that never came to be … hence the 'weird stuff is happening here wut' thing. You may choose to ignore than Idk. Because Supernatural.  
**

 **This is me throwing a stick so that you folks are distracted while I work on the real Drabble #5, but I guess it's now Drabble #6. Eh, oh well. Half-way done with that one, so no worries!**

 **Also wendigo. They are technically super dark spirits, despite being physical.**


	6. Jeanne: 1778

**Drabble #6**

 **Jeanne: 1778**

 _May, 1778_

On February 6, 1778, France formally recognized the United States of America as an independent country, and officially became an ally when the Treaty of Alliance was signed. If anything, America felt grateful towards the elder nation for recognizing him at all and wanting to seek an alliance. Of course, it took capturing a British army to do so, but it was the thought that counted … right? Not to mention all that spywork … America had heard from a sergeant, who heard it from a superior, who heard it from General Washington himself that a French spy (who may or may not have been assassinated … should they even be knowing about this stuff?) had been sent to their side of the world in order to assess the new nation's chances of winning. Though, of course, America had to give most of the credit to his old friend Ben, who had been playing politics as an ambassador in France.

All this told America that maybe he should be more cautious when dealing with France, but he was mostly certain that the reason he was feeling this way had everything to do with his bias upbringing with England.

But still. In recognizing him, France had also declared war on Great Britain, and provided him with money, grants, loans, weapons, and material. So really, it was in America's best interest to embrace this friendship that would hopefully survive throughout the ages (and most importantly, help him achieve his complete independence). Yes, France was trustworthy. Hadn't the man been secretly sending him supplies since 1775? Spain and the Netherlands had too! So they all had his best interests at heart … _right?_

America squinted off in the distance, peeking over the edge of the makeshift fort. Nope. The blue horizon and shining Atlantic Ocean was still French-free, and very much British-infested. The determined new nation gripped his bayonet as anger overtook him, sky-blue eyes narrowed. On one of the warships blockading the bay, he could distantly make out a blond man with large eyebrows in a white tunic, white pants and black boots, staring straight at the flimsy fort. _One day, I'm going to expel you from my lands … One day …_

He heard a splintering noise and a loud crack, which startled America. He blinked, and looked down at his hands … he had accidentally shattered the bayonet in two.

"What the—" choked Sam, the soldier with whom he was on guard duty with, managing to almost swallow his chewing tobacco. He coughed, hacked, and finally, he spit it out. Regaining his breath, he exclaimed, "How the bloody hell did tha' happen?" Sam was a farmer from the south; he had three sons, two daughters, and was of German descent—his family had been here since almost the start.

America gave a nervous laugh. "I guess it got hit one too many times … haha … ha …"

Sam wasn't buying it, if the way he was looking at the nation was anything to go by.

"Um, you see—" America started, brain buzzing to spout something sounding remotely logical, anything that—

"Ah, oui, I've seen it 'appen before," came an accented voice from behind them. The two soldiers jumped up startled, turning to face—

"France!" America blurted out, eyes wide. And it wasn't only France—there was a ghost hovering over his shoulder, a teenaged girl wearing a long, flowing, angelic dress. Her hair was cropped short and though quite beautiful, there was something … _dark_ about her.

It made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

"Um, ah," America stumbled, probably resembling a gaping fish. He averted his gaze from the spirit, sending God a small prayer that the essence hadn't noticed him _looking straight at it._

He could _feel_ the … darkness. It was rather unnerving. It didn't feel like Salem, it was a different sort of darkness.

France raised a delicate eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his blue eyes. America remembered himself and stood at attention; after all, France _was_ wearing a high-ranking uniform. He could practically hear Prussia hissing and spitting in the background about etiquette. Sam, on the other hand, unlike America, had never been trained (read: tortured) by the Prussian, so he simply stood there with his shoulders sagged. The mere memory made his right ear burn in soreness from when the white-haired nation had dragged him away from the fire-camp to lecture him on the many uses of the bayonet, which no America, did not include using the pointy end to skewer sausages to cook over the crackling fire.

It was then that America noticed his slip.

"Um, w-what I meant to say is, uh—"

He felt like smacking himself—stuttering and stumbling all over himself was no way for a _real_ nation to talk!

" _Je suis Capitaine_ Françoise Bonnefoy," France interrupted smoothly, giving a disarming half-smile. "I 'ave been sent 'ere in _avance_ to, ah, _comment le dis tu?_ Talk about _stratégie_."

Here he looked pointedly at America.

"Ah, yes! Follow me, I'll take you to the Commander, um, Captain Bonnefoy." America thought he saw France's expression twist at the use of English, but shrugged it off. He blundered his way down from the protected wall fort, coming side-by-side with the much older and experienced nation. The teenaged ghost eyed him for a moment, but soon lost interest. It kept glancing over at the wall where they had come from, features dark. "T-this way, uh, sir." Blasted stutter! It didn't help that a dark aura was surrounding the ghost.

As they marched away, America felt relief welling up in his chest. Despite wanting to bash his head repeatedly against something hard, help had finally arrived.

France chuckled. "How did you even manage zhat?" he asked good-naturedly, pointing at the broken bayonet that America still carried.

 _England stared deep into America's eyes, his own bottle green hues serious but kind. "James, promise me lad that you will never show your strength around another nation until the time is right."_

" _Why?" asked the child, who couldn't be any older than five. He was full of innocence and curiosity. A warm hand caressed his hair, coming to cup his cheek._

" _Just … trust me on this one, okay poppet? It's for your own good."_

" _Okay, big brother …"_

 _A sigh. "James Virginia Kirkland, what did I say about calling me that?" he gently chided._

 _America smiled nervously, coming closer to his guardian for a hug. "Not to?"_

America gave a nervous laugh and shrugged, as if to say 'I haven't got a clue, maybe an act of nature? God? Who knows!'

France hummed, but otherwise did not comment. The rest of the way was spent in silence, America trying not to cringe at a bloodied American ghost in uniform that had no remaining limbs, and France eyeing critically the whole encampment in general, taking note of their little fort's condition.

It was then that America noticed the absence of that ghost … the one that was following his ally around. How odd.

He had a feeling that he'd be seeing that ghost around in the future.

 **A/N: I was going to do all the Jeanne of Ark drabbles and put it into one big giant drabble, but half-way through I hit a road block. So I'm doing them by chunks, one or two historical pieces at the time. Hope you guys don't mind it too much!  
**


	7. Seventy Years Or So

**Drabble #7**

 **Seventy Years Or So**

 _New York City, late November, 2010_

As he sat with his back hunched at a bar in a well-liked and dimly-lit Irish pub in New York City, America sighed. Sometimes, he really wished he was like the other nations. No, actually—scratch that. He _always_ wished he was like the other nations. America swirled his drink, the amber liquid sloshing around. It smelled strongly of apples—hard cider was usually his go-to drink during his more uncharacteristic moods. He almost never drank out in public, a relic of Prohibition, but after he read the letter forwarded to him by his Boss from Japan, he decided to say 'screw it' and entered the nearest bar while doing his damn best not to slip on last night's black ice—which he almost did.

Oh, don't get him wrong or anything—being able to see ghosts and all could be useful, even downright entertaining at times (they gossiped like a bunch of old maids) but the pros were rather limited when one kept the ability a secret from even the ghosts themselves. And, not to mention, the cons—which far surpassed the pros by a gazillion, especially if your name was America aka the United States aka Alfred F. Jones.

For nations, tragedy was a constant presence. It was everywhere, the past intruding on the present like some epic sci-fi movie. Nations, who could live for a freakishly long time, noticed this; they could see the past in the present, in their everyday lives. Sometimes, such memories were painful or sad—but more often than not, depending on the event, the wound had scabbed over, nullifying the pain to some degree. Memories could bring forth bitterness and sorrow, perhaps a few heart pangs—memories that could haunt you centuries down the road, the dregs of something great, yet dulled over by the passage of time.

At least other nations could somewhat move on, only plagued by such memories and occasional 'ghosts' of the past. They could go on with their lives, their hearts momentarily giving a dull throb or maybe something worse; their mental wounds, depending how deep or how long ago they've remained etched, had most likely healed or partially-healed over time by then. It was a natural process, really. Or so he had observed.

Nations were notorious for being almost incapable of moving on, holding on to grudges of long past—all one had to do was sit through a World Meeting in order to see that. Still, as non-human humans, they still needed some form of closure, a way to move on, a way to heal.

The United States of America was a bit different.

America, well, his 'ghosts of the past' were a bit more literal and corporal. Some of them even threw stuff and broke vases like temperamental five-year-olds.

With this ability, the mental wounds retained physical form, the intrusion of time periods becoming much more real and tangible. Nations could move on thanks to distance; for America, with the ability to see ghosts in the shape and form as they had died, this distance practically didn't exist.

It took America much longer to 'move on' no thanks to the physical embodiments of past tragedies. And, alongside his volatile temper that only reared its head under special circumstances, this made for a very dangerous combination. Thinking things over, America realized that this could also explain his apparent lack of remorse for some of his actions—he could eventually forgive, but forget? With all these _ghosts_ floating around? Ha.

America looked at the opened letter that rested abandoned on the polished surface, Japan's practiced handwriting glaring out at him in black ink. He was very subtly asking for an official apology regarding the dropping of the atomic bomb now that they had passed the sixty-fifth anniversary of the event a few months ago, in early August. Now, America wasn't in the mood to be reminded of that bloody war, especially since America had just returned from a UN meeting in Poland but two days ago …

 _America tried his best to keep smiling, even when surrounded by millions upon millions of concentration camp victims in various states of starvation, mutilation, and other, wearing those striped pajama-like uniforms, not to mention the naked ones with enlarged eyeballs seemingly about to pop out of their eye sockets and mouths frozen in gape-like gasping holes of desperation despite their state of living death—_

 _Breathe. He had to breathe. Jesus._

 _Sweat was building up on his brow and behind his neck. Their bodies, minus their heads, hung limply in mid-air, all around, America practically had a pair of feet in his face, like puppets hanging from the ceiling. It was an army of men, women and children, a great many of them naked, some of them clothed like civilians but stained by thick dark-grey blood—_

" _You seem a bit pale, lad." England, infuriatingly observant as always. America had made double sure to sit between England and Canada once he had stepped into the building, though maybe that hadn't been such a great idea after all. Canada was looking at him suspiciously._ _  
_

" _BAHAHAHA! Me? Pale? Yeah right. Lose your glasses again, old man?"_

" _Why you—"_

 _But America ignored him, opting instead to pretend-chug his 'soda,' pursing his lips so that the foul liquid did not dare enter his mouth. He breathed in deeply, the herbal scent calming his frayed nerves, eyes closed so that he could not see the evil around him. England didn't need to know that tea, Earl Grey specifically, was basically America's ultimate stress-relieving draught. He hated the taste with a passion—but the smell offered him relief, a deepening sense of calm. It reminded him of his childhood, of simpler times, when safety of the outside world could be found in the warm arms of his father._

 _Somewhere seated around the UN table, Germany was getting the chills._

" _Someone up ze heating, mein Gott! Vhy iz it so cold?"_

 _America was mighty glad that the German would never know the answer. Or see what America was seeing. Especially since they all seemed to be staring at the German.  
_

 _Good God, France, don't lean back_ _ _—_! Aaaaand he leaned back. Now there was a child corpse ghost sticking out of his chest, stoic and dead and dark and oh dear God in Heaven the child had no eyeballs in its sockets_ _ _—_ and all the while his pseudo-uncle smiled flirtatiously at the whole room, completely and utterly oblivious. _

_Disturbing to the sixth power much?  
_

 _America gently placed the styrofoam cup disguised as a McDonald's soda back on top of the table, moving his subtly trembling hands to rest on his lap, far away from nosey nations and as a means to ground himself as to not impulsively push France off his chair. A man-puppet sulked behind a napping Greece, Russia had half of someone's body in his face, and Italy was totally repeatedly dispersing a ghost by constantly hitting it in the face with his dramatic hand-gestures. In addition, a little girl seemed to be following Poland around, a big chunk of her head missing, striped pajamas eating her whole. The conference room was too small, and the ghosts too plentiful. With a fake smile frozen on his lips, he pretended to read his notes—the only spirit-free place in the overly-packed room full of hanging ghost-corpses that made his hairs stand back on end and his stomach churn._

 _'Never again,' he thought to himself, feeling like he was about to be sick. There was a distinct smell of putrefaction in the air, an invisible smell that only he was aware of. He had a feeling that these weren't normal ghosts. The silent staring and lack of incessant talking kind of gave that away. Oh, why couldn't they have met in Warsaw? At least the ghetto ghosts were spunky!_

 _America gave his 'soda' another solid 'chug.'_

Sometimes America wished to be like other nations, oh so perfectly oblivious. Completely unknowing. None the wiser. America envied that. A lot.

But it also made him strong.

Or so he liked to tell himself.

America balled up Japan's letter and threw it in the trash—he would _not_ apologize for the a-bomb, especially not when they were fast approaching the seventieth anniversary of Pearl Harbor. Like every year, America would go visit the sight. And, like every year, he would be forced once again to face all the soldiers who had died that day. Besides, it had been a necessary misfortune so that they could end the war.

Suddenly, the lamps overhead swooned by an unknown wind and flickered. America lazily looked up at the ceiling and thought _Dully noted, dudes._ He took a swig of the hard cider, feeling a light burn pool down his throat and warming up his chest. _Well, at least my oblivious idiocy will finally be useful for something. Oops, sorry Kiku; I guess that's what you get for trying to be subtle with a moron like me. I'm too stupid to catch your meaning. Better luck next time, bud.  
_

"Kid, may I see your license?"

America blinked up at the bartender. It took a second, but his smile was brought back upon his face, considerably brightening the room.

"Sure thing, dude!"

The bartender, a balding second-generation American of Irish descent, glared at the nation for that remark. America chuckled; _Them oldies really hate the word 'dude,' don't they?_ With his index and middle finger, the American pulled his wallet out of his coat (which hung from the bar stool's wooden back-rester) in one smooth gesture.

"Here ya go!"

The bartender took the ID and scrutinized it. He looked up, hazel eyes hard.

"This says that you're thirty-seven years old, kid," he shot huskily, eyes accusing.

America blinked.

 _Oops._

The bartender, whose name was Ed, took out his flip phone and dialed three numbers. What numbers they were exactly, he didn't know, but he was pretty darn sure that the guy just called the police on him.

"Hello? Ah, yes, I'd like to report a false ID—"

America swiped the ID from the bartender's hand ("OI!") and practically sprinted out of the establishment, not even bothering to close the door behind and leaving it wide open. It would only be fifteen minutes later, after having ran non-stop until reaching the edge of the Irish quarter, that he would at last notice the November cold nibbling at his skin—and the fact that he had left his coat behind.

He had three guns in that coat: two of them registered to _him_ , the last one acquired by shady, slightly illegal means.

America groaned. His Boss was _so_ going to tear him a new one.

 **NOTE:** **I do not agree with America; I think it's about freaking time we apologized for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It's the 21** **st** **century—we must move on, but not before giving both sides some closure. Honestly, it's been 71 years (2016).**

 **NOTE#2: Dear roommate: get off fanfic and do your homework (for I am all-knowing and know when you're procrastinating). Love, your favorite (and only) roommate.**


	8. Debatin' Role Models

**Drabble #8**

 **Debatin' Role Models**

 _October 19, 2016_

America sat stiffly upon the hotel-issued queen-sized bed, hugging a pillow to his chest with one arm as though it was a life-line. The other arm, elbow stuck firmly to the pillow's soft body, was busy holding his smartphone up to his ear. Advil pills (about thirty of them—don't judge) and a glass of fizzy coke waited for him on his right-side night stand. A bingo paper rested in front of him, a pencil laying diagonally on the printed sheet. He wore gray sweatpants and a black short-sleeved T-shirt with the words 'I ATE THE AMERICONE DREAM' in a representation of his flag.

 _Beep-beep beep. Beep-beep beep._

Someone picked up.

"Mattie, I need a favor bro." This was said without missing a beat, in a complete deadpan, azure blue eyes glued to the TV in front of him.

" _Al?"_ A sound, as though the Canadian had nearly dropped the phone. _"What—why—you, I—are you ... okay?"_ Canada asked tentatively from the other end of the line, surprise and concern bleeding into his tone. But mostly surprise—and confusion, with a dash of panic.

America stared at the television; Donald Trump, Hilary Clinton and the Moderator were talking all over each other. Surprisingly enough, they had been behaving thus far … for them, that is.

" _The country is going to hell, I say!_ " shouted John Adams passionately, angrily. He waved his ghostly cane around, emphasizing every word with gusto— " _To hell! When legislature is corrupted, the people are undone! Undone, I say!_ "

Thomas Jefferson sighed. He looked equal parts solemn and exasperated; " _Are you done quoting yourself, Mr. Adams?_ "

" _NEVER!_ " Mr. John Adams bellowed. Neither the ghosts nor America winced at the loudness. Expressions annoyed, many of the ghosts in the room opened their mouths to—" _And don't you dare tell me to sit down! Or to open that damn window—we're dead, for God's sake! Heat is of no consequence—_ "

"Let's talk a bit. About anything."

" _Um, sure?"_

America though for a second. "Tell me about … poutine. What's the recipe?"

" _Oh! Um, okay, so first—"_

Trump's voice intermingled with Clinton's, yelling about something or other. Rigged election, voter fraud, and Clinton's e-mails. America absently grabbed the pencil and crossed out the three boxes pertaining to those topics.

It should be noted that several of the ghosts in the crowd were old, wore crumpled nightgowns, or both. Many had died of old age or of some sickness—their appearance pained America, reminding him of their mortality, short lives, and fragility. He remembered many of their last moments, and how hard their deaths had hit. Mr. John Adams and Mr. Thomas Jefferson both died on the same day in 1826—on the fourth of July.

Not the best birthday, 1826.

He dealt with it on his own; since the XYZ Affair and Quasi-War with France, America had gone into isolation and had been perfectly happy to avoid everyone—which was made easier thanks to his physical position on the planet. 1826 marked the beginning of some very interesting times … ah, yes, America planned and schemed and pretended, intent on getting away from even his own government. He stuck around until Mr. James Madison, the last Founding Father and one of his Presidents, died, which was another ten years.

And then he went Wild Westing, as he liked to call it—with the Civil War acting as an interlude of sorts—until good ol' Teddy dragged him back by the ear in 1905.

Et tu, Wright Brothers? Et tu?

The word _crooked_ was mentioned on the TV. America checked his bingo card—nope. Not on it. Dang.

" _And look at him—playing some silly game!_ " Mr. John Adams fretted, angry steam bubbling beneath his translucent skin. Not literally, of course, though judging by the sheer exasperation combined with probable high blood pressure—a look he was most familiar with, past Bosses and fellow nations alike having opted that look often enough when the immortal teen felt particularly energetic—he honestly wouldn't be surprised if the spirit started to breathe fire.

He'd seen ghosts spontaneously combust before, so the notion was totally possible.

America let go of the pencil, cheeks inflated into a small, childish pout.

" _Oh, let the lad be—he has enough on his plate as it is_ ," grumbled Mr. Thomas Jefferson, looking over some document.

" _Al? You there?_ "

America blinked.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

" _Oh._ "

There was silence between them, albeit not awkward or anything—Mattie was an awesomely understanding dude just like that. He should hang out with him more often …

Hmmmmm …. Oh! They could totally go tree tapping and make their own maple syrup! They haven't done that in _years_. Ha! He'll show that poutine-lover the power of his amazing Vermont maple syrup!

" _Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide!_ " Mr. John Adams continued.

"So, Mattie, how's your day?"

" _Really, John_ ," chuckled Benjamin Franklin, head popping out from a wall. " _You're starting to sound like a—oh, what do they call it? A broken record!_ "

" _Well, I went fishing this morning—the leaves are changing, eh?"_

America nodded, making an approving noise. Fall was his favorite season. Hm, maybe he'll buy some hot apple cider later, or maybe get a pumpkin-spiced latte. Yeah, he'll do that.

" _Oh, do respectably shut it, Mr. Franklin—like you're any better!"_ Mr. John Adams heatedly shot back _._

Mr. Thomas Jefferson shook his head, one leg resting over the other, sitting in mid-air, document still in hand. Could documents die? America suddenly thought of removed constitutions such as the Articles of Confederation as well as the millions of books burned during World War II. He filed that thought for later. " _No wonder the present government has issues,"_ Mr. Thomas Jefferson commented, _"—they have_ _ **us**_ _as role models._ "

" _Hear, hear!_ " exclaimed Mr. Hancock in the background.

" _Well, if you lot didn't decide to make it so—_ " started an anonymous southern representative, hidden somewhere in the crowd of floating congressmen.

" _Pardon, 'our lot'?" screeched another, wigged head popping out from the silver sea. "If I recall—_ "

On the other side of the room, Ben chuckled at Mr. John Adam's sour expression; America absently noted Mr. Thomas Jefferson's very subtle smirk.

 _Syrian refugees—_

Another box was checked. One more box, and he'd have bingo.

He rubbed his temple—this migraine was killing him. Migraines were the norm during election year, amplified on debate nights, but this one was taking the cake. The only thing keeping him from moaning himself into a fetal position was his audience of the undead. Now, if he was at home, he wouldn't have this problem—his homes were all warded, in exception to his old Virginia plantation which he was never going _near_ ever again.

Ugh. He just wanted it to be over. Stupid migraine. Stupid floods, and fires, and hurricanes, and tornadoes, and shootings, and—

"SLAVERY IS AN ABOMINATION—"

" _YOU'RE_ AN ABOMINATION!"

And they were definitely not helping. His head throbbed. Was this how the other nations felt whenever America was being his usual obnoxious self? For some reason, that did not stir anything within him. He paused, mentally looking for something.

…

…

Yeah, nope, no guilt over it at all.

Mr. John Adams chased a jolly Ben around the room in the space mid-air, swinging his cane around trying to hit the bespectacled Founding Father who did nothing more than chuckle. America pressed a hand to his face; in death, some of their attributes had … amplified. John Adams would have never tried bashing Ben over the head with a cane, no matter how much he had been tempted to in the past during their living years. And Ben … well, he didn't change much, other than embracing his inner child a bit more.

' _Oh, someone just put me out of my misery …'_ mentally moaned America.

"Hey, bro, next week wanna go—"

 _CRASH!_

America snapped his head to the side, body tense, where the broken wreckage of what once was a ceramic pot laid. The whole room froze—America was frozen, the ghosts were frozen, heck, even the damn air seemed to have frozen.

And they were all staring at him, wide-eyed and looking very much like children caught doing something they shouldn't be doing. America kept his gaze on the broken pot, feeling butterflies flutter about in his stomach.

" _Al? What was that noise?"_

America continued to stare, mind whirling, perfectly aware of the awkward atmosphere. The ghosts remained still, silent, holding in their breaths—not that they needed to breathe?

Technically, America wasn't supposed to be able to see them anyway, so it was kind of ridiculous for them to do that.

" _Al? You there?"_

"Ah, yes—yes."

" _Is everything alright?_ Really _alright?"_

"Of _course!_ " America exclaimed energetically, grin stretching his face. It was genuine, too. "I think this hotel is haunted, since this pot just totally fell and broke—" America felt the air stir, restless, "but maybe I just have super psychic super-powers!" And here he bellowed out his famously obnoxious 'hero laugh,' all rights reserved.

Mattie sighed. _"Or maybe you watch too many movies, eh."_

America chuckled. "Maybe. Oh, hey, I gotta go—we should talk some other time, make plans or something—MY MAPLE SYRUP IS BETTER THAN YOURS!"

Before Mattie had a chance to protest very loudly on the subject, America killed the connection. Ah, Mattie. So easy to rile up. His phone rang, blaring out one of Justin Bieber's songs—the one Canada hated the most. America rejected it. A pause. It buzzed in his hand—a text message.

[NO IT'S NOT :(]

America sniggered, and laid down on the bed, pillows cushioning his noggin. Talking with Mattie always made things better—especially when he needed a distraction.

And just in time, the heater hummed to life, like a very loud monster that made the walls vibrate.

"Huh," America said out loud, latching on to opportunity. "So that's why the pot fell …"

The ghosts tittered.

" _Are we in the clear, then?"_

" _I believe we are."_

" _Perhaps we should evacuate the room—if something else broke—"_

And then George Washington manifested himself through the wall, an expression of resigned confusion marring his face.

" _I heard a crash and everything got quiet. What have you lot done this time?"_

Poor General Washington, he sounded equal parts patronizing as well as exasperated—much like a tired parent to unruly children.

Which he practically was, both in life as well as in death.

America felt better when _he_ was in the room, despite being …. a ghost.

The General was to Congress like Germany was to World Meetings.

All the ghosts in the room looked appeased enough. America had thought about revealing his little secret to his first Boss many times, but was too scared to do so—the man would probably sternly sit him down next to Alexander and Mr. Thomas Jefferson and proceed to lecture them for hours on why exactly he had warned them against forming political parties the way they did.

Speaking of Alexander—were was the man that made him into the man he was today?

Alexander, last name Hamilton, popped his head through the wall, all smirk and no shame.

" _Why, Mr. Jefferson, sir!"_ he greeted, and America turned off the TV and rolled out of bed.

" _Alexander …"_ the General warned.

America slipped on his sneakers, which were still tied up from when he kicked them off.

" _I forgot to tell you a few years back, when my beautiful and most splendid musical came out—"_

America grabbed his Captain America sweatshirt—black, the hero's shield large on the chest area—and hunted down his key, a card with the room's number.

"— _but did you know that you are being played by a negro actor?"_

America grabbed seven of his Advil with one hand, muttered something about a midnight buffet as he trotted across the room, shut the door behind him, and _ran_. He could hear the yelling all the way down the hall.

The next day, the newspaper claimed a gas leak.

Thankfully, no one was hurt.

Except maybe his laptop, which was installing the PC version of Assassin's Creed Unity. Good thing he kept his important files on an encrypted and everything-proof USB.

 **A/N: HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! Also, happy belated Canada Day! :)**

 **Actually started writing this waaaaaaaaay back, during one of the Presidential Debates, the one in Vegas. Yes, I multi-tasked watching the circus, typing the thing, and playing debate bingo, in addition to munching on the treats brought by the other members of the Democrat, Republican, and Officially-Libertarian-But-Really-All-Affiliations college clubs. Yeah, we got all together to watch it live in a classroom, enlarged via projector.**

 **Also, 'I ATE THE AMERICONE DREAM' belongs to Ben and Jerry's, supreme ice cream lords.**


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